


seeps in-between the floorboards

by SmugShimada



Category: Call of Duty
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Call of Duty: Black Ops, Drabble, Introspection, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-17 03:24:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10585425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmugShimada/pseuds/SmugShimada
Summary: Its late, the cinema is depressing, and things are quiet. All things Richtofen cannot stand.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Mostly vent material.

It was dark, and that was always welcome, but it was cold and the moon was mocking him, and that was nothing short of infuriating. Richtofen looked over edge of the balcony with disdain. If he fell the right way, he'd snap his neck upon impact, and he wouldn't have to worry about the giant glowing presence smirking down at him through the unmanaged ceiling.

He then realized what death would entail. With a heavy feeling of defeat, Richtofen gulped down more of his — well, Nikolai's — disgusting vodka, no longer aware of the numbing burn that trailed down his throat. His insides were burning as they always were but the alcohol lit them on fire. His guts felt like ignited gasoline. 

Richtofen couldn't remember a time when he didn't feel shitty, as sad as that was to admit to himself. Work, work, work for a cause he didn't care about, only to have none of it recognized, all of it stolen. 

Nearly sixty years of his pure genius and the world didn't seem to notice.

Suddenly, something sparked his interest. Something that had escaped him for the past hour that now came to light. Everything was quiet. Hushed. He couldn't hear even a malicious whisper. His head was aching, but there was no screaming to drive that ache into anything further.  It made his skin crawl, the silence. His head didn't hurt and that wasn't right. He needed it to sting, to hurt, to feel like his brain was bleeding, because at least that was something familiar. This was an alien sensation. Dreadful.

Anxiously, he looked around, scanned the projector room. Shelves of random items he hadn't bothered sorting through, mainly old records and various notes of an anatomical interest. Undeniably there. Below him, a broken cinema caked with filth and years of weathering. A chandelier he vaguely remembered being expensive and beautiful crashed and smashed between rows of torn-apart seats. There.

He wasn't quite sure what to do with this information. This feeling of presence, weight. Reality. He was getting steadily drunker, yet nothing had seemed more clear to him.

Richtofen tipped the bottle over, watching the vile liquid pour out between the floorboards.

**Author's Note:**

> A lot of words for a lot of nothing.


End file.
